The Mistakes of Draco Malfoy
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: Draco Malfoy was an alcoholic, taken, shown the twelve-step plan, and cared for by Hermione Granger. What happens when she finds out that he was hiding how bad it was all this time? And she finds his secret stash? Three-shot, complete.
1. Chapter 1

**For the Houses Competition. Short.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Short, "It was just for one night after all.", WC: 1155**

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It was just for one night after all.

Draco lay on the floor, halfway to passed out, Hermione having just pried the empty bottle of rum from his cold fingers. He was beyond help for the evening, not likely to even be able to swallow water, even if she could force it down his raw throat. She swallowed thickly, throwing the empty bottle into the trash and going to the cupboard to fetch blankets. In the morning he would leave and that would be that. It would be as though Draco Malfoy hadn't come to her door half an hour ago, weeping, throwing up, and drinking through all of it.

She pushed the memories aside for the moment, grabbing the thick purple blanket her family had kept in their home when she was a young girl. Draco was still lying resolutely on the floor when she returned to the living room, blanket in hands, hoping that he wasn't going to be too sick in the morning. Not that she didn't like caring for people, but this was Draco Malfoy. Hogwarts bully, work colleague, and now, somehow, friend.

"Draco?" she murmured, touching his shoulder lightly, desperate to not disturb him too much. "Draco, come on, you can't sleep on the floor all night. You need to get onto the couch."

"Mmhnmm," was his only response, eyes clenched tight shut.

"Fine," she huffed a little louder. Deftly, she wrapped her arms under his and lifted the top half of his body so that it was resting against the cushions. Then, carefully, arduously, she hauled him up onto the couch, already frustrated with the way her night had gone. She had planned to have a bath after some Chinese takeout, read for an hour, and get an early night. What with Mr. Malfoy appearing on her doorstep, she had done none of those things and there wouldn't be time with him there.

Tea was needed in this situation, since she had deviated from alcohol after Ron had got alcohol poisoning some two years after the war. That was ten years ago, and time had flown by so quickly that she couldn't believe it. She was thirty. Unmarried, an apartment to herself, and no prospects in life other than in her job. She had been working with Malfoy for the last year, two desks away from him in their tiny office for Legal Claims. There wasn't much to do there – filing reports, liaising with muggle police officers – but it was a step towards her dream job, working in the legislation for Magical Beasts.

The kettle boiled quicker than she imagined, watching Draco from the tiny kitchen, as he turned over, groaning from the headache that was sure to be spreading. The pounding dizziness, as though a train had whirled around on a rollercoaster and crashed through the brain. Hermione made sure to place a bucket beside him on the carpet, and a glass of water on the side table. Tired, mildly concerned, and restless, she went to bed.

Next morning came, the night having burned slowly. It was too hot, then it was too cold, and then it was daybreak.

Hermione checked on Draco when she went through to make her breakfast and noted that he was asleep. Good thing it was a Saturday and neither of them had anywhere to be – like work, for instance. She went about her morning as she would have done if Draco wasn't lying on her couch, showering after breakfast, then completing some basic chores. It was easy enough to forget that he was there. That was, until she heard a clamorous groan from the kitchen.

"Granger, where's my rum?" he called through to her from his position on the couch.

She stalked through to the lounge, eyebrows raised derisively.

"You drank it."

"I have a spare, somewhere…" Malfoy muttered, glancing around him at the couch, the blanket, and the glass of water he obviously hadn't touched. "Ah ha!" From his robes, he pulled a hip flask and unscrewed the lid quickly, as though he hadn't had anything to drink in weeks.

"You should really be drinking wat – where are you going?"

He was getting up, stumbling, and eyes darting around once more to see whether he had left anything behind.

"Things to do, Granger. You wouldn't understand." Still drunk, of course Hermione thought to herself. "I hope we didn't sleep together. Can't have that."

And, with his skittish reply, he vacated her apartment.

Over the next couple of weeks, she noticed different things about him.

She noticed how he carried the flask with him, and that life seemed to be a little more lost within him. Often, she wondered what had prompted his arrival at her flat those few weeks ago – with his tears and his rum – and whether things were resolved for him. They had never gotten the chance to talk about why he had been so upset, and why she was the one he had turned to for help. They hadn't gotten the chance to talk, mainly because they had a working relationship. It was barely anything more than that, plus sarcastic commentary.

She noticed how tired he was getting, the hues of purple and blue darkening under his eyes, though his smirk remained ever-present. How could he be getting enough sleep to function properly, with the tiredness that came with so much alcohol? How was it possible that Draco should still be standing, let alone laughing right along with the people they worked with?

Nevertheless, it was one night that changed things between them.

Hermione was working later than she had done recently, having not quite finished her work from the day. Everyone else had gone home, or so she thought. As she lightly stepped through the Ministry library, searching for a particular book, she heard a rustle. A shuffling of sheets, a clinking of glass.

"Granger?"

His voice was immediately recognisable, slurred from the alcohol already long into his system. Drawling, despite the roughness from sleep.

There was an understanding between the two of them by the end of their conversation. He admitted to being what he was at only twenty-nine years old: Draco Malfoy was an alcoholic, and his life was crumbling away because of it. It was getting worse because the alcohol couldn't fix the problems that were already there. The problems of his parents, his work, his friends, of everything that seemed to be pressuring him to collapse it all. Pushing him towards the well of depression and anxiety, alcohol numbed it. He didn't want to return home, so he had been sleeping in the Ministry. There was nowhere else for him to go. No one had noticed.

"Stay with me," Hermione offered. "Until you get back on your feet. Stop the drinking, sort out things with your family and your friends. Stay with me."

Wildly, appreciatively, he accepted.

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 **Thanks for reading! Two more instalments to come!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Houses competition. AU. Hermione put Draco up when he was dealing with alcoholism.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Drabble, "His hiding place had been discovered. What on earth was he going to do now?", WC: 397**

 **Second instalment of 'The Mistakes of Draco Malfoy'**

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His hiding place had been discovered. What on earth was he going to do now? The amber bottle having been pulled from far back in the cupboard in which they kept their fabric softener, hidden behind the Comfort and the Aerial tablets. He had never expected her to find the liquor there, and it was the fault of time that meant his secret was unveiled. Her and her date having come into the room, holding hands, clearly expecting a much different scene.

Hermione stared back at him from the doorway, incandescent with rage, still holding the hand of the blue-eyed boy who had been her date for the evening. Draco was caught in the headlights, one drunken hand on the bourbon, and another holding a dirtied glass. Disappointment filled him, why did he do it?

"What the hell is this, Draco?" Hermione demanded, letting go of the boy's hand. "I'm sorry you have to see this, Isaac." Isaac shrugged. "I thought you were on the 12-step-plan, and that everything was better. You were four months sober."

"Hermione, I haven't been sober since October last year. That was only a week." Draco scowled back at her, furious with himself. He had been on a plan. He had barely made it the week before he had turned back to the alcohol. Although his liver had protested, and his heart had hurt at the thought of Hermione finding out, he still continued sabotaging himself.

"And you've been hiding it all this time?"

"Yes."

She scrunched up her eyes and wiped a hand over her face. "I don't know why I bother anymore. I helped you out, put you up in my apartment, and all you've done is be a dick."

"Harsh."

He watched her gaze shift from his own eyes and back to the bourbon he still clutched in his hand.

"If you don't get rid of it, you'll have to find somewhere else to stay."

With that statement and one final scathing look, Hermione took Isaac's hand and walked back into another room of the apartment, talking quietly and no doubt pondering whether to have coffee before settling down in front of the television. Isaac was entirely different from Draco, despite the blondeness. He was tweed, and cheek, and warmth. He was everything. Everything Draco wasn't.

Hermione didn't deserve Draco's shit. She shouldn't have to deal with it anymore.

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 **Thanks for reading! One more left!**


	3. Chapter 3

**The third instalment of "The Mistakes of Draco Malfoy"**

 **Houses Competition. AU. Warnings: Major character death**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Additional Short, Prompt: "Huh, and you actually believed him?", WC: 1270**

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I walk into the living room, my feet dragging with the shock of the revelation. _Draco is drinking again._

Draco Malfoy, recovering alcoholic - supposedly. He's been living in my apartment with me for the last few months, taking up the spare bedroom and lying to me that he was getting better. He lied to me all this time. I'm utterly flabbergasted, heart racing, the dripping tap louder than the rain coursing down and crashing onto the thin windows. Our income has been split, secrets shared between us, food left in the cupboards for the both of us. It's not fantastic money in Legal Claims offices, but we've been making it work. Meanwhile, he's been spending it on alcohol.

Betrayal is bitter on the tongue. What the hell was the use of the support I've been offering him? Finding endless numbers of groups for him to attend, articles, courses, substitutes to stop the craving. Things that we did to help his mentality improve so that the reliance on the alcohol was reduced. I'm utterly horrified.

Isaac, my friend from work, settles down on the sofa nearest the far wall in the living room, stretching his legs out and placing his head in his hands. Whether from exhaustion or stress, I don't know. We didn't expect Draco to be home so early, having just come in from our date. I met Isaac a month ago, all banter and light flirting, then dates and cool nights out in the hot summer air. It was like magic itself.

Yet, here we are, reeling from discovering my friend with his stash, behind the fabric softener, no less. I don't know what we can talk about in the space between this moment and the next - the elephant in the room is just too significant.

"He told me he was better," I say apologetically, breaking the silence as I flick the switch for the kettle to begin boiling. Isaac removes his tweed jacket and throws it over the back of the sofa cushions, looking back at me with a sympathetic expression. "He was ten steps into his twelve-step plan, or so I thought. Two months sober, or whatever lie it was that he told me. Merlin, I feel so stupid."

"You are everything short of stupid," he replies, smiling a little lighter. "Look, I know this is a bad time to ask, but what's the deal with you two? Are you exes? Or is this some sort of weird polyamory situation - because I'm really not into that."

I laugh, thankful that he's even here. The kettle boils and pops as steam billows into the room. "No, not even a little. I've never felt that way about him, and he told me that it was the same for him. We don't really have that sort of connection."

"Huh, and you actually believed him?" he asks, grinning. "I like you very much so it's hard to imagine someone not liking you." I nudge his shoulder playfully, setting down the cups of tea on the coffee table in front of us. For a moment we can smile, but then the moment has passed and his face is serious again, darker than the sky outside. "So what happened?"

"There was this one night, a couple of months ago. He turned up..." I swallow thickly. "He was completely out of it, drunk out of his mind, all messed about. Crying, being sick, coughing. Like a panic attack amplified by alcohol. He stayed the night here on the couch. I thought it was only going to be one night," I explain. "But then I found him sleeping in the library at the Ministry and offered him a more permanent place here. It felt like the right thing to do." I pause. "He's like a brother to me; the older brother you somehow end up caring for because they think they're a lost cause. For some reason or another."

Isaac frowns.

"My mother called my sister the practice child."

His admission is a small nugget of knowledge about him. I didn't know he had a sister, and I can immediately sense a story there.

"My sister was the big and bold Gryffindor in the family. She did the pranks, skipped out on boring lessons. She was vibrant and fun and school was always far too dull for her to cope with." He pauses, taking a breath. "Then my father died, and she went off the rails."

"I'm so sorry."

He bites his lip, takes a sip of tea, and continues.

"I was the calmer one, worked hard, never got in trouble. My parents were like me - a little too formal to accept my sister as some semblance of normality. I think things got a bit much for her. She felt lost, or broken, or something. The 'faller' she called herself. Then, one day, someone was running towards me in the corridors, shouting about drugs, and alcohol - neither of which was easy to get hold of anywhere near Hogwarts, as you know. She must have brought it from home somehow. She was passed out when I got there."

"Is she...?" I ask tentatively, hardly daring to finish the question.

"She died."

A wave of horror floods my insides with ice water, paralysing my lungs and my heart. I never thought... I can't even imagine losing someone like that. Horrifically unexpected, thrown in the middle of a positive place like Hogwarts. Of course, the school is filled with danger being a facilitator for magic, but laughter is a common cure. I don't think I've ever felt that need to do something so drastic to end everything. And I can't possibly comprehend what Isaac must have felt. The loss of my parents was vile and stretched out, but so temporary that I barely had time to grieve them.

"It was years ago now," he says into the silence. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. We're supposed to be on a date."

"I think we've gone past the date-appropriate conversation." He chuckles.

We take several long moments to process the heaviness between us.

"I can't say this for certain," he begins, "but I imagine that Draco feels somewhat similar to how my sister felt all those years ago. She was helpless, lost, broken, but only to herself. Although others loved her, she could only see the negativity."

"He's still processing from the War," I murmur, thinking back to the horrors we all went through. "Everything with his family and their affiliation with Voldemort, his friends lost, the mistrust in the community. It's hard."

The lights flicker above and my stomach is unsettled. Isaac relaxes me, and it's simply delightful to have someone else on my side with Draco in the other room, hopefully binning all of the alcohol and anything else he might be using to fight off his personal demons. Quietly, quickly, I place a light kiss on Isaac's blushing cheek.

"I'll be right back."

Isaac smiles, blindingly brightly, in my direction as I stand, set my tea back on the table, and wander through the apartment to Draco's room. He's not in there. I try the study. No. Perhaps his original hiding place, the laundry room?

What I find turns my heart to ice and stone.

Pallid face, grey eyes staring up at me, having choked on his own tongue and breath itself.

A shattered bottle of bourbon beside him.

Pills emptied onto the tile.

Life vanished from his body completely.

I crumble. I was too late, my apology and pleading dead on my cracked lips as the pain crashes like cymbals all around me.

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